Emptying the Nest
by cccpirate
Summary: Byakuya learns about his sister in the days before her marriage. [Oneshot, written for Jaina in May's flashfic challenge]


**Title:** Emptying the Nest  
**Author's name:** cccpirate / Karlie  
**Pairing:** Byakuya+Rukia, implied Rukia/someone, far too much Hisana-reference.  
**Rating:** G  
**Wordcount:** 2697  
**Squicks/spoilers:** Set in the future, after the war, with assumptions that everyone (important) survives. D  
**Summary:** In which Byakuya learns a lesson. Or something.

* * *

On the morning the last cherry-blossom bloomed in Seireitei, Kuchiki Rukia announced her upcoming marriage.

By the evening Kuchiki Byakuya had sent the entirety of the household staff home, such was their sheer irritating chatter. He was more than aware of the preparations to be made – hadn't he been married once himself? – he was quite up to date on what needed to be done. He did not need to be questioned on what flowers should be used.

He was honestly more concerned about how the bride-to-be would handle things. Rukia had never exactly adjusted entirely to life as nobility, after all, and there was no bigger display of one's status than their wedding. Even if, he noted with distaste, she was marrying beneath her station.

Nonetheless, he supposed it was his duty as elder brother, not to mention leader of the clan, to act as support. That, and a brief examination of any and all potential female role-models who could possibly be considered for such a responsibility... well.

That was just depressing.

It couldn't be too difficult, after all.

When Byakuya had married Hisana – his only real insight into the intimacies of a noble wedding (the last wedding within the other three houses had taken place when he and Yoruichi had been more interested in kicking each-other's servants) – she had worn a thick, heavy kimono that had passed through the Kuchiki clan's women since the fifteenth generation, a hair ornament that had been created for his grandmother, and her face had been painted flawlessly – Byakuya had wanted to impress on those attending that Hisana was no less a Kuchiki than he; that from now she commanded the respect that came with the name.

And she had looked no less a noble than he, though privately Byakuya had always thought Hisana had held an air around her of something other than the gutter.

He had thought, though, that Rukia would be different. He had thought she would be a little uglier, perhaps (Hisana had left her in the _Inuzuri_, of all places – he had had someone arrange Rukia a dental appointment before he had even arranged to meet the girl); he imagined her to be broken-toothed and twisted nosed and with the hungry, grasping face of an urchin like the rest of the dogs she had lived with. So when he had seen her, tinier than Hisana (though she was younger, not to mention probably malnourished) but still with the large blue eyes and tiny nose and mouth like a lock and the achingly familiar fall of hair across her face, he had forced himself to focus on the differences – the set of her jaw, the square of her shoulders that came more from living in the lower districts than shinigami training. Her voice, though she tried, carried the broad inflection of somebody who was used to – and not afraid of – yelling at someone bigger and older than her until she got her own way.

Like Hisana, she had been terrified of the clan elders.

Unlike Hisana, she had been able to avoid them.

He had been unable to shield either of them.

**The make-up**  
"Nii-sama, is this really necessary?"

Byakuya's eyes fell pointedly to where, beneath the powder and paint, the scar that she had acquired during the war curved across her cheek, down to her chin and disappeared under her jaw.

"Yes, but—" Rukia began, wrinkling her nose gingerly as though she was afraid that the whole lot would crack and come off. Byakuya thought that that was entirely possible. "It itches."

"Itches."

"Mm."

"Define 'itches'."

A pause.

"Well now it's more of a... burning."

Byakuya sighed, nodding to a maid to hand Rukia a wet cloth.

He supposed he should have planned on nothing going to plan.

"You idiot," Yoruichi told him, lounging across the floor like a lazy, hungry lion, sake balanced perfectly on her knee. "You didn't think? Ah, wait, I know the answer to that question."

"Clearly," Byakuya replied, feeling a little ruffled, "you have been spending far too much time with Shiba."

"Who, Kuukaku? Naaaaaah," She lolled back; the sake-cup teetered precariously. Byakuya had already made sure that the cushions she was sprawled over were replaceable, or at least repairable. "Though. She wanted to d—"

"Inform her that her pyrotechnics are not required."

Yoruichi snorted. "She said you'd say that."

"Did she."

"Yep. She also said the only reason you'd say no is because it's easy to scare you in your old age, Byakuya."

"I refuse to even dignify that with a response."

"You know Rukia likes fireworks, don't you?"

No, he did not. But it made sense on a number of levels. "Tell her she will be responsible for any damages caused," he replied, and it was not petulant in the slightest, even as Yoruichi grinned so wide he could see her back teeth.

**The registration.**  
It was customary, when a significant event happened within the family – a birth, a death, a marriage, an adoption – that it, and the names of those involved, were entered into the family records; old, leathery books that, he realised with a strange sort of ache, would come to be useless after this generation – the immediate line of inheritance would die when he did, instead passed to a cousin, or a relative-of-a-cousin. His own name was written some two volumes back, his marriage at the start of this one, Hisana's death two lines across in stark, black ink. Rukia's name was a page or so back (the outer houses of the family had suffered as had every family the previous winter).

Byakuya had not entered it personally; he had, at the time of the adoption, been preoccupied with the workload that came with taking over the Sixth Division, but when the paperwork had settled down to a manageable pace, he had checked to make sure it had been done correctly.

Then he had summoned his sister.

"Yes?" she had said, kneeling in front of his low work-table. He had held out a slim writing brush, wet with ink, pushing a piece of paper towards her with a free hand.

"Your name. How is it written?"

Obediently, Rukia had taken the proffered brush and showed him, the seven simple strokes gliding along the paper – ru, ki, a. He delicately cleared his throat, taking the paper when she had finished and setting it aside. "I meant," he had said, eyeing the kana with a small amount of visible distaste – clearly, she would need extra calligraphy tuition, "how is it _written_."

Rukia had looked away then, and in a strange moment, Byakuya had been reminded of the small pang of something in his chest whenever he saw a zanpakutou without a name. "There is no other way, Nii-sama."

"...I see. You may leave."

He consulted with the family's oracles, with the registrars used between all four of the Great Noble Houses, yet none of them could agree on perhaps the _right_ kanji for 'Rukia', and all of them were of a melancholy nature, and so the issue was never raised again.

(For at least a month afterwards, Shiba Kaien signed every single missive directed towards the Sixth Division in clumsy katakana scrawl as though he'd stuck his brush between his toes and written that way.

Byakuya did not put it past him.)

When it came to enter Rukia's engagement into the book, however, he found the three characters coming easily, without any wondering of how they should really, actually be written.

_kuchi-ki ru-ki-a_

Soon there would be four characters in front of her name instead of three, and somewhere, distantly, it felt like a loss. What needled more was that he didn't even know if this bothered Rukia or not.

**Dressing**  
Watanabe was an old lady with more lines in her face than years in her life. She had married into one of the lower ranks of the family when Byakuya was still in swaddling clothes and been hired as a lady-in-waiting of sorts when Byakuya had reached his third century, a few months before the miscarriage that had started the beginning of the end (how, Hisana had reasoned, could she be allowed to carry a child when she'd abandoned one already?).

(Byakuya, who at that time was only just learning what it felt to be losing someone, losing everything, learned what it was like to know that he had already lost. It was a horrible feeling, he reflected, to be jealous of someone who was quite possibly already dead. But though he had offered assistance in the past, Hisana had always refused – it was she who had left her, it would be she who would find her – and Byakuya had knelt by her bedside every day after he had finished his work and held her small, shrinking hand and damned himself for asking how she had fared today.)

She eyed Rukia, as most members of the Kuchiki family eyed each-other, with detached cool respect. "She's shorter than I remember," she said.

Neither of them missed the choked sound of outrage Rukia held in, though Byakuya thought it was testament to her tuition that she did not retaliate. "I'm sure something can be arranged," he replied diplomatically.

Rukia muttered under her breath, eyeing the kimono hanging on the opposite side of the room like a shroud.

"I want Ishida to make my wedding kimono," Rukia announced at dinner that evening.

"Oh?"

"It's what I want."

"Is it." He left a pointed pause, filled it with miso, and waited. She did not relent. Byakuya almost – _almost_ – smirked into his soup bowl. "Then I suggest you consult him. You will," he added firmly, "nonetheless attend lessons regarding decorum and bridal manners."

"Understood."

**Bridal Decorum: lesson one – duty**  
"A wife," Watanabe said crisply, raising an old, gnarled finger to point at Rukia. "is expected to be obedient and subservient to her husband's will at all times."

Byakuya, sitting in on the lesson, snorted.

"Excuse me," he said, rising and turning in a whirl of robes. "I have... paperwork."

**Bridal Decorum: lesson two – the ceremony**  
"Rukia-sama. It is supposed to be a wedding, not a drinking contest."

**Bridal Decorum: lesson three – duty, redux**  
"Rukia, next time the lesson turns towards the evening habits of a husband and wife, I would appreciate it if you would not kidou your tutor in the face."

The tatami was thrown out and replaced. Rukia did not attend further lessons. Byakuya supposed that if there was anything she did not know by now, it would be about as useful trying to instruct her in them as it would be telling a dog he could not wag his tail.

**The night before**  
It was not unusual to see Rukia around his quarters or near his office – since the war, she had been decidedly less skittish, he had noted, though perhaps that was due to his own efforts as well as hers, and as apparently the only competent member of the family willing to attend her lessons with her, he had noticed something not unlike camaraderie develop. Nonetheless, it was unusual to see her here so late at night, particularly when—"Shouldn't you be with your husband-to-be, Rukia?"

She blinked, and inwardly, Byakuya was surprised at the taken-aback expression on her face for two reasons: one, had she not been taught years ago to mute that sort of reaction?

Two, was it really so surprising for him to take her personal life into account?

"It's... not customary, Nii-sama. The night before."

"Ah. Of course." He supposed that Rukia would know bridal custom better than he – though he was still surprised, reports had indicated what she was hardly the best student the family had produced ("Why can't I punch him if he's an idiot?!" being one particular response Watanabe had been displeased with). Nodding briefly, he turned back towards his quarters.

"Nii-sama."

He inclined his head ever-so-slightly back in her direction.

There was no embrace – surely, they were both beneath such contact – but Rukia had bent forward, her back at a perfect angle, her hands pressed against her thighs.

"Thank you."

**The happy event**  
They had been fortunate with the weather, though Byakuya put that down to the family oracles pointing out auspicious days to hold a wedding (and he was not so removed a brother to know that Rukia's dislike of rain stemmed from more than just wet clothes and damp hair, but more the flash of a blade like lightning and the creep of blood that was not hers).

He personally thought that the Quincy (a _Quincy!_) had no place working on a commission for the family, but likewise he was slightly confused at the prevalence of all things red-bean Rukia had requested for the after-party but he had – on Yoruichi's encouragement – simply signed most of the expenses away: it was not like the Noble House of Kuchiki would become bankrupt over taiyaki, after all.

He couldn't deny that the Quincy-commission, as he had taken to referring to it, suited her; the sleeves were made a little slimmer to better fit somebody who would never reach a top shelf unless she had a stepladder or a particularly tall servant. He did not tell her this, however.

Instead, he asked, "Is this what you want?"

"Yes. It is."

Rukia was not Hisana; he had always known that, but the fierce glint of something in her eyes at that moment defined just how different the two had been. He allowed himself to wonder briefly if Hisana had kept Rukia with her, would she have developed the same spirit? Would she have been as docile as her wonderful, beautiful sister?

Then he nodded. "Then I will not keep you any longer. And do not thank me again," he added, not missing the twist of her mouth. "To do so more than is necessary renders it meaningless."

Rukia puffed a half-breath through her nose, a gesture he had seen her display around his adjutant enough times for him to recognise it as amused resignation. "Just as always, Nii-sama," she said simply – it rankled a little more than he had thought it would have done – and she stepped away.

"Rukia."

The name came unbidden, bubbling up without any dignity for circumstance. She turned her head slightly – perhaps she had been right, he thought; the head-dress _did_ look a little too big. There were many different things he could say in a situation like this, and it was entirely selfish but Byakuya did not want his last word to Kuchiki Rukia to be 'meaningless' before she went off to become Rukia to another, lesser name.

Some of them were entirely beneath him (Of course she would be missed, but it was not like she did not invade his division every time she was off-duty anyway).

Others cliché, and of those clichés, he knew they could never be true (the Kuchiki house had never been her home).

Some were just obvious. He picked the most fitting one. "Be happy," he said, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction as he did so. This was entirely right. This would have been what Hisana expected of him. This was how an elder brother should have acted half a century ago.

She did not nod (she had not, in fact, so much as inclined her head since the servants had finished her hair that morning), but the lowering of her lashes and twitch of her lips was more than enough for Byakuya, and he let her go, taking his place and watching her shuffle across to the shrine with a shoulder-held dignity that would have made her teachers proud.

Byakuya will never do this again. He promised himself that on Hisana's ashes, and he thought that if he was going to keep at least one of the promises he made back then, it was going be this one. He watched the priest say his blessings over Rukia and the red-head who would never be good enough for her – and did nothing _but_ watch.

If there was one thing Byakuya had learned about his sister in his long life, it was that above all else, she deserved love.

– end –


End file.
